Experiment
by explodedchildren
Summary: Sherlock accidentally poisons himself...well, kind of accidentally. John has to pick up the pieces. Johnlock, utter fluff...I am sorry.


"Sherlock! You need to tell me what you took. ...Can you hear me?"

Everything spins and blurs messily. I don't know where I am or what's happening. On second thoughts, I don't know _who_ I am, so how can I possibly be expected to reply to this strange man's constant flood of probing questions?

"Sherlock! You have to tell me what it was."

"Experiment," someone chokes out. The air in my chest is heaved out and I can't breathe anymore. The room spins again, and something cold and hard and tickly like dusty floorboards presses against my face. I wonder how the ground spun up to meet my head like that.

"What experiment, for god's sake!?" The man calms down. "Can you hear me?"

"Of course he can hear you, he isn't deaf!" someone spits, and once again it's even harder to breathe. I lean forward, already collapsed on the floor in a heap, my palm splaying out as I rest on it. My lungs feel as though they're being filled with sand, and everything is rough and dry and I cannot breathe at all. I'm certain I'm going to die.

"Sherlock?" The voice is now perplexed. "Okay..." There's a pause: when I scrutinise his face with my double vision, I see that it isn't an uncertain hesitation; it's a moment for him to him calculate his next move.

I cough, splutter, choke, trying to rid myself of the sand, and then speak. "Don't trust him," I warn the other man, working out how many people are here. There's _that_ man, with the sandy hair and quick, sharp face, and there're at least two other who I've heard but not seen. The first man, the one the blond-grey man is addressing, and the one who spoke for him. Plus myself. At least four people. Are we all dying? By the sounds of the sandy man's voice and choice of words, the 'Sherlock' person is definitely dying.

"C'mon, Sherlock..." he urges, and I realise someone is dragging me upright: their arms under mine, and under my head, keeping it steady, and around my waist so I don't fall. I'm carried to a bed, which is where I'm laid down and reconsider something.

Other people talking makes _me_ choke. Three voices sound the same: mine, and the two men's I whom I've heard but not seen. I'm the one the sandy man looks at. I'm the one in the bed. I can't see any other people, or hear them breathing or coughing or dying or existing. No one else is in the room. Just the sandy man and I. So...I must be Sherlock, correct?

"Sherlock," the man who I am definitely not returns. "Sherlock, do you know who I am?"

I think very hard. It hurts my head and my eyes squeeze shut in concentration; tight fists break my hands.

"John," I say from nowhere. He looks pleased; this must be his name. So, I am Sherlock and this is John. When he switches the light on, I examine him further, and deduce that he's firstly a doctor, secondly concerned, thirdly my flat mate. He seems to tell me a lot about myself. Clearly, I am in need of medical attention: that would explain why I feel like I'm dying. I have a flat mate, so I must be in my flat; if this man is concerned, he must be my...friend? A friend? My first and only friend and I don't know who he is.

"I know I'm nagging you, but this is important." I think I should nod, and he continues after I do, so it must have been the correct action. "I have to know what it was. It could be harmless, or it could end up being lethal. I can't look after you until I know how to. So can you remember what the experiment was?"

He says this slowly, simply, like I'm an idiot, and softly, like I'm a child. He's sitting by me on the bed, covering me in blankets that I try to push off – I'm boiling already, so why would I want blankets? – and opening the window.

Memory loss. Fever. Compromised vision. Disorientation. Coughing. Difficulty breathing. Paranoia.

Bloody hell, what _did_ I take?

Suddenly, I'm just as curious as the doctor, so I attempt to clamber out of bed to investigate. He won't let me budge: I'll just have to improvise. I look at myself in the dull yellow light cast off by the lamp. My hands are shaking, I think; my skin is very pale, even for me: it's a blue-grey colour, like a corpse. Everything I touch is painfully cold; my head is burning. The room continues to shake around me, though I'm sure it's less violent now. More tranquil than before, still causing motion sickness.

My brain won't keep up with my eyes, and my eyes won't follow the instructions from my brain. _I don't know_ is the first thing that pops into my head. _I don't know what's wrong with me._ The thought makes me sicker than the spinning. It's admitting defeat. It's failure.

Either I speak and don't hear myself, or John understands the look on my face, because he murmurs, "Don't worry. We'll find out." There's a tight pause. "It'll be okay, Sherlock," he promises, his arms suddenly around me, hot wetness on my face. Am I crying? How humiliating.

There's a shuffling sound, and two light thuds on the floor, and then the bed on my left hand side sinks just a little, as two warm arms wrap around me.

"J-John?" The word seems shockingly familiar on my tongue; I like how it sounds. I find my head nuzzling into this man's neck, resting on his shoulder, beneath his sandy hair.

"I'm here, Sherlock. You'll be okay."

"P-promise?" Speaking hurts, coughing hurts, breathing hurts...everything hurts. But it will be okay, because John says so, and John has to be right.

"Promise."


End file.
